While The Billy BoilsSearchUnder the spreading deficit,The Fitzroy Smithy stands;The smith, a spendthrift man is he,With too much on his hands;But the muscles of his brawny jawAre strong as iron bands.
Pay out, pay out, from morn till night,You can hear the sovereigns go;Or you’ll hear him singing “Old Folks at Home”,In a deep bass voice and slow,Like a bullfrog down in the village wellWhen the evening sun is low.
The Australian going “home” for loansLooks in at the open door;He loves to see the imported plant,And to hear the furnace roar,And to watch the private firms smash upLike chaff on the threshing-floor.
Toiling, rejoicing, borrowing,Onward through life he goes;Each morning sees some scheme begunThat never sees its close.Something unpaid for, someone done,Has earned a night’s repose.